ils, seemed rather weary and listless.

McGuire sat rigidly at the head of the table, forcing smiles and
glancing uneasily at doors and windows. Peter was worried too, not as to
himself, but as to any possible connection that there might be between
the man with the dark mustache and the affairs of Jonathan McGuire.
Mildred Delaplane, who had traveled in Europe in antebellum days, found
much that was interesting in Peter's fragmentary reminiscences. She knew
music too, and in an unguarded moment Peter admitted that he had
studied. It was difficult to lie to women, he had found.

And so, after dinner, that information having transpired, he was
immediately led to the piano-stool by his hostess, who was frequently
biased in her social judgments by Mildred Delaplane. Peter played Cyril
Scott's "Song from the East," and then, sure of Miss Delaplane's
interest, an Etude of Scriabine, an old favorite of his which seemed to
express the mood of the moment.

And all the while he was aware of Jonathan McGuire, seated squarely in
the middle of the sofa which commanded all the windows and doors, with
one hand at his pocket, scowling and alert by turns, for, though the
night had fallen slowly, it was now pitch black outside. Peter knew that
McGuire was thinking he hadn't hired his superintendent as a musician to
entertain his daughter's guests, but that he was powerless to interfere.
Nor did he wish to excite the reprobation of his daughter by going up
and locking himself in his room. Peggy, having finished her cigarette
with Freddy on the portico, had come in again and was now leaning over
the piano, her gaze fixed, like Mildred's, upon Peter's mobile fingers.

"You're really too wonderful a superintendent to be quite true," said
Peggy when Peter had finished. "But _do_ give us a 'rag.'"

Peter shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't do ragtime."

"Quit your kidding! I want to dance."

"I'm not--er--kidding," said Peter, laughing. "I can't play it at
all--not at all."

Peggy gave him a look, shrugged and walked to the door.

"Fred-die-e!" she called.

Peter rose from the piano-stool and crossed to McGuire. The man's cigar
was unsmoked and tiny beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

"I don't think you need worry, sir," whispered Peter. "The men are all
around the house, but if you say, I'll go out for another look around."

"No matter. I'll stick it out for a while."

"You're better off here than anywhere, I should s